In Detroit
by LCFC
Summary: Dean will not let Sam go...
1. Chapter 1

"Say yes Sam," Lucifer's vessel was rotting from the outside in, skin falling off his bones in an alarming way.

"Say yes Sam," his voice was silky, insistent, "say yes or I will cut your brother's throat."

Dean hung in Lucifer's arms. The demons had done a job on him and he was almost too weak to stand. Green eyes stared painfully, swollen mouth trying to make some sounds. Lucifer smiled and held the knife closer to Dean's throat, the blade cutting into soft flesh, blood trickling down ravaged skin.

"Sammy – no!"

Finally Dean got the words out and he tried to lift his hands, pull the clawing fingers away from his body, "Sammy – don't do it."

Sam stood stock still; his eyes blurring, his mouth dry.

There was only one thing he could do in this situation, only one thing he could say. Despite his brother's protests, despite everything, he opened his mouth and begged for forgiveness in his heart.

"Yes," he said, firmly, "yes, yes, yes…"

****

The smell of rot hit Dean immediately as the body behind him fell – lifeless – to the ground.

Sam – or not Sam now – had vanished, gone as if he had never been there and Dean dropped to his knees, vomiting hard, the corpse behind him stinking like the dead thing it was.

Dean wanted to shout, wanted to weep, wanted to scream. He buried his head in his hands and prayed hard, wondering if anyone would hear him, wondering if anyone would come.

The sudden fluttering of wings made him look up. A familiar figure, trench coat filthy now, suit ripped, tie gone. Castiel's blue eyes observed him with some pity and the angel knelt down and put his arms around Dean's shaking shoulders, deliberately ignoring his tears.

"How did you find me," that one sentence, ground out, his energy draining away.

"This is Detroit," Castiel looked sad, he actually looked sorry, "what was prophesised has come to pass – we must leave here."

"No," Dean remembered Zachariah and the things he had seen, the future could be changed, it had to be changed, Dean could not – would not – confront that vision of his brother again, white suit, slicked hair, an expression that Sam would never wear, "no Cas – not without Sam."

The angel did not react, did not deny, just nodded his head – once.

"You must rest first," he said and he touched Dean's forehead gently and Dean knew no more.

****

Dean threw his duffle into the Impala and got behind the wheel. Castiel looked concerned and opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by Dean raising his hand.

"No," he said, firmly, "I don't want to frigging hear it Cas – I don't want to hear anything – I have to go and get him back."

"It won't be him," Castiel's face does not crack, it is stoic, expressionless, "you saw what happened to Raphael's vessel – Lucifer is far more powerful – there will be nothing left of the Sam you know Dean – you have to accept that."

Dean said nothing; what was there to say? He swallowed down the lump that seemed lodged in his throat and rubbed at his face.

Why them? Why Sam? Despite everything that had happened in this last, painful year, Dean knew that his little brother was a good man, a great man. He knew that Sam had tried so hard to stop this, that Sam had thought that killing Lilith would be a good thing. He refused to think, to believe that his baby brother would turn evil and he would never, ever put a gun to Sam's head.

Now he tucked the colt – although useless – into his back pocket and Ruby's knife into his belt. He knew he wouldn't use them on Sam – couldn't but it felt good, familiar, to have them and he started up the car and pulled out of the lot.

He had a long way to go…

****

Every so often Dean kept glancing at the passenger seat – heart sinking as he realised it was Cas sitting there not his brother.

Dean bit his lip hard until he tasted salty blood. He missed his brother – he missed Sam and his big, warm presence. They had been apart too much lately, they hadn't been brothers in a while and he missed it, missed the closeness and the prank wars and the familiarity of it.

Now Sam was gone – again – and Dean wasn't sure he was ever going to get him back.

"You will have to kill him," Cas's voice broke through his fug and he shifted in his seat, tired, stiff, so full of grief that it threatened to choke him.

"I can't," Dean had lived in the comfortable world of denial for a long time and he wasn't moving anytime soon, "he is my brother."

"Not any more," Castiel said and Dean wanted to slap him, wanted to stop the car and scream at him, wanted to drive the car into a tree and – maybe – end it all.

"I'm getting him back," Dean said, "whatever is left of him – whatever is left of Sammy – I'm getting him fucking back."

Castiel was silent for a long time and Dean realised that he was holding his breath, waiting for the angel's answer.

"Then I will help you," Castiel said, finally, "because Sam is my friend."

And that – Dean mused – was enough…

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Then**

_They had avoided Detroit as if it had been riddled with plague._

_Dean hadn't wanted to deliver Lucifer's vessel right to his door and Sam seemed happy to go along with that. At least – Dean mused – he had already changed the future. His future self had abandoned Sam to his fate – this Dean – this Dean was not letting his little brother go anywhere._

_But then they had received the call; Bobby – Bobby alone and in distress, the fear in his voice tangible. They had lost too many friends – too many members of their family and they had no desire to lose another one. Dean had begged Bobby to tell him where he was and Bobby had given that one simple answer._

_"I'm in Detroit."_

_They should have known it was a trap; demons swarming the place – an abandoned warehouse on the poor side of town – and no sign of Bobby. Lucifer was there though, wrapped in his rotting vessel and smiling, proud that he had managed to fool them, his eyes fixed on Sam like a dog checking out a particularly juicy bone…_

_Dean had realised – too late – that taking on an army of demons with one little pig sticker knife was not a wise idea. Sam had been restrained but not harmed. Dean on the other hand – Dean had been beaten almost to a pulp and he could barely stand when his brother approached him, Sam's eyes on the knife at Dean's throat._

_Dean had heard what Lucifer said – felt the prick of blade against his skin – and he had begged, pleaded with his brother to stop, to run, to let him go. But Sammy – Sammy had smiled at Dean sadly, hands up in supplication as he opened his mouth and gave Lucifer what he wanted…_

****

Castiel was silent in the passenger seat and Dean didn't even bother with the music. The streets of Detroit were deserted, the sky already a dingy grey and Dean knew – without question – that he had to stop Lucifer before he released the Croatoan virus.

He didn't even know where to start looking and he was finding it hard to concentrate, constantly thinking about Sam – about what Lucifer was doing to his brother – wondering if anything of Sam still existed, whether he would ever get to speak to his brother again or if he would be left with a cold corpse on his hands.

He considered – still considered – saying 'Yes' to Michael. At least then this could be all over. But then he remembers that heaven's battle would cause Earth's demise and he doesn't want that on his conscience alive or dead. He knows that Castiel is waiting for him to give in, that Cas thinks this is a really bad idea – but he can't and he won't stop. He wants Sam back – whatever is left of him – and he is going to get him – even if he dies in the process.

****

Lucifer stands in front of the mirror and brushes a big hand through shaggy hair. In the back of his mind he can feel Sam Winchester – feel his distress – his pain. He knows that Sam is still alive – that some essence of him still exists and he can feel his worry – feel his concern for his brother and it makes him wonder – makes him smile.

This vessel is – certainly – a huge improvement on the last one. This body – his true vessel – picked out for him by Azazeal – is fine – powerful – blood thrumming through his body, fire in his belly, anger vibrating in every pore. Lucifer looks at himself with darkened hazel eyes, looks at the slanting brows and high cheeks, the strong jaw and long hair, the muscled body and long legs. He smiles – oh how he approves of this body – approves so much that he is never coming out of it, never letting it go. Michael can do his worse and that brother of Sam's will cause him no problem. He laughs and strokes a hand across his chest.

"I am going to kill him Sam," he whispers and the soul of the youngest Winchester sobs in pain and distress, "and I am going to make you watch…"

****

The hotel clerk is flirting with him but he is too tired to respond. He pushes Sam's photograph forward and asks her if she has seen the guy. This is their twentieth hotel and the trail is getting colder and colder and Dean just wants it to be over, for the whole thing to end.

"He has the suite on the fifth floor," she smiles then showing white teeth, "I think he may be expecting you – told me if – if a guy in leather and another in a trench coat turned up – I was to send you up to him."

Dean's stomach clenched and he turned to Cas who looked as still and stoic as ever. There were no words between them and – inside his pocket – his hand tightened on the hilt of Ruby's knife.

"Thanks," he pushed $50 over to the clerk who took it and stared at it in surprise, "get yourself something nice," he mutters, wondering if he will see her on the way down.

****

The door is open and Dean goes inside; Castiel has gone but Dean knows his angel isn't far, knows that he might be planning something and worries what it is.

He sees the familiar shaggy hair, the straight back, the long legs and his mouth goes dry. Sam – not Sam – is wearing a white shirt and black jeans that cling to his thighs. His feet are bare and there is something in his body language that seriously disturbs Dean and makes him feel very uneasy.

"Dean," Sam – not Sam – fucking Lucifer – turns and smiles, dimples showing. His hair is brushed behind his ears and he looks like the fucking freak in the white suit – all smooth movements, slow grins, smug expression.

"I – get out of my brother – now!" It is a pathetic demand and his voice breaks on the last word. Lucifer smiles with his brother's mouth, reaches out with his brother's hand and touches Dean's shoulder, soft, gentle, his eyes bright.

"No Dean – I am never getting out of your brother – you – you will have to accept that – Sam is not getting his body back – however much you want it."

Dean clenches his teeth; he stands – legs apart – hands outstretched. He has the knife in his pocket and – although he knows it won't do anything – he has to try – even if it means…

Suddenly – Castiel appears before him – his trench coat flies out behind him like wings and he looks – for the entire world – like an avenging angel.

"It is time Dean," Castiel says and Dean knows – knows with a certainty that he cannot avoid destiny.

He hears a voice he does not recognise, feels a presence beside him, a gentle hand on his shoulder. He hears music, feels warm inside, outside, all around.

He takes the knife and holds it to Lucifer's throat and he opens his mouth and says the word he has avoided for so long.

In Detroit it is not only Sam that says 'Yes'.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up on the floor of a deserted warehouse.

It is dark and dank; the stench overpowering. He cannot remember anything – even as he tries his mind is like fog, thick and cloudy – and he rolls over and tries to recall just who he is and what he might be doing there.

There is a figure lying prone next to him. The man has long hair and a grey flecked beard. He smells bad, worse than the warehouse and he is pale, his cheekbones sharp in his skin. He is wearing nothing but tattered jeans and one sneaker and he is breathing heavily, a healing wound in his throat dark red with old blood.

The fuzz in his head gets worse and he moans, his hands on his face, trying to feel for something, anything. He has a beard, his eye feels swollen and sore and his legs wobble as he gets to his feet.

"Buddy?" A voice he does not recognise and he turns, squinting through the darkness, seeing a torch, a blue uniform, "are you ok?"

"No," he shakes his head and it HURTS, "I'm not ok."

The prone figure moves suddenly and makes a noise that doesn't sound like anything. He lifts himself up on his hands and moans, whimpers. His hand snakes out and grabs, fingers biting into his tender flesh.

"Where am I?" He cannot shake the hand off and he doesn't try to. Instead something compels him to kneel down and stroke the other man's hair, greasy and long, a comforting gesture.

"You are in Detroit," the cop comes nearer now he knows there is nothing to fear.

The tall man on the floor lets out a cry; he shakes his head over and over, his mouth forming words that might be, "no, no, no, no."

"Hey," the cop shakes his head, "he sick?"

"I don't know – I don't know anything." Tears sting his eyes and he feels foolish and alone, confusion making his head spin.

"I'm going to take you both to the hospital," the cop sounds kind and he moves in a non threatening way, "come on."

He grabs the tall man's hand and heaves him up, putting his arm around his thin waist to hold him steady. It is the only thing in this fucked up situation that feels right and he holds on tightly, following the cop to safety.

****

They call him John Doe; he doesn't correct them and he doesn't know what else to say. His strange companion is called Jack – only because they can't both be John – and he seems a lot worse off.

They estimate him to be around 32 – from the US of course – in reasonable health. There are burns on the souls of his feet and a long but healing wound on his stomach. He is washed and shaved and shown a mirror but it means nothing to him and he just stares at his reflection.

He is handsome he guesses – he has nice features and his eyes are green and bright. He is in hospital scrubs and his clothes have been taken away. There is no ID on him, no money, nothing. They have run his description through the police files – nothing – nothing at all.

He sits in the waiting room listening to Jack scream. Jack is afraid, he keeps crying, shouting, gibbering. He doesn't hit the radar either and he doesn't have any ID. He is taller – much taller – than anyone John has seen.

They bring Jack out in a wheelchair; it is obvious he has been drugged and John feels a strange connection, the need to protect. Jack's head flops forward but he looks better without the beard. He has a nice face, strong jaw and a cleft chin. There are moles on his cheek and his hair is long and damp around his neck. He is wearing blue sweat pants that are too short for him and his tee-shirt rides up to show a flat stomach.

There is a wound on his throat that looks bad; it has stopped bleeding but it could have killed him – even John can see that. He gets up and puts his hand on Jack's wrist.

"Do you know him?" The orderly asks curiously.

"I – I don't remember," John says, honestly and the orderly frowns.

****

"We are going to have to put you both in an institution – you know that don't you?" The doctor tries to look kind but his smile is false, "I think you will be alright in one of our more – quiet – establishments – but Jack – his needs are greater."

"I'm not – I'm not going anywhere without Jack," he didn't know why he was saying that or what Jack was to him – if indeed he was anything – all he knew was that he wasn't leaving Jack and where Jack went, John would follow.

"We have several places in Detroit that might help you," the doctor chewed his pen and John's stomach clenched. He shouldn't be here in Detroit – he couldn't be here – it was wrong – it hurt and he didn't understand why.

****

Jack clung to him; long arms gripping him, holding him tight. Jack was scared, his eyes were wide and he made whimpering sounds as they moved down the corridor. Jack limped and he didn't seem to be able to speak much, his throat making odd rattling sounds. Jack kept him in his sight at all times and John wondered why he didn't find it cloying.

****

They were given a room together in a small but clean building that looked and smelled like a hospital. Jack lay down on the bed and curled into a ball, long fingers curling around the blankets, asleep before his head hit the pillow. John sat on his own bed and wished he had a TV. He was hungry – the sandwiches and coke they had given him hadn't really filled him up and he was sure that Jack hadn't eaten at all.

He must have dozed because he woke to hear Jack screaming and he shot up, swinging his legs over the bed.

"Dean!" Jack cried out, "No – Dean – Dean – Dean,"

John gulped and shot over to Jack, his hands on Jack's shoulders, his mouth close to Jack's ear.

"Hey – hey – calm down – you have to calm down."

"DEAN!" Jack was sobbing, "don't – don't – don't."

"Jack!" John knelt down, took Jack in his arms, "hush – come on now – hush."

"Sammy," Jack's voice was fading, tears drying on his cheeks, "Sammy."

John's guts churned and he knew he wouldn't sleep again.

Dean – Sammy – they meant something – they – they seemed familiar to John and it scared him.

Who were Dean and Sammy? And why was Jack so upset by them?

Maybe he might find out something in the morning….

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Jimmy Novak opens his eyes on a bus heading to nowhere.

His head hurts and there is a healing scar on his stomach that looks like a bullet wound. He scratches at it, rubs at the puckered skin and wonders.

His family aren't where he remembers they were and he sits on the porch of his old house staring at the boarded up windows and trying to work out where he has been these past few years. He remembers some of it, remembers boiling water, prayer, a bright blinding light and lots of pain. He can also remember two guys – one as tall as any man he had ever seen, the other broad and stocky. Who they are he has no idea and he reaches into the pocket of his old, smelly trench coat and pulls out a scrap of paper.

_**Bobby Singer **_it reads and then a list of numbers. Jimmy doesn't know who Bobby Singer is or was but he does feel that he should, so he gets some change, goes to the local booth and makes the call.

****

Bobby is pretty old; he sits in a wheelchair in the wreckage of his salvage yard and watches Jimmy as he sips hot, black coffee. His eyes are as alert as a hawks and Jimmy feels uncomfortable, ill at ease. Bobby knows something, maybe everything and yet he isn't telling. Jimmy is a patient man – he doesn't appear to have a home or family anymore so he has plenty of time and he is going to wait.

The sky is always blue and the sun always seems to shine bright and hot. Jimmy takes off the trench coat and wrinkles his nose, takes off the tie and flings it away. Beneath the shirt his skin is pale, old scars making patterns across white flesh. Bobby huffs and shakes his head.

"So," he says, finally, "we should go on a trip – can you drive?"

Jimmy nods, trusting this man for no reason whatsoever.

"Then we should go to Detroit," Bobby says and he smiles, satisfied as if that is that.

Jimmy feels sick at the thought of Detroit but he doesn't know why and he stares at Bobby, wondering how to put his worries into words.

"They saved the world," Bobby states and Jimmy swallows, mouth as dry as sand, "and you helped them – not that you will remember much – guess Castiel has gone now – guess he had other work to do," he grins, shark-like and confident, "we have to find them – even if it is just to salt and burn their bones – but they won't be anywhere else but Detroit."

"Who?" His voice is worn, feels unused, "who is in Detroit?"

"Our saviours," Bobby says, proudly and Jimmy is more confused than ever.

****

Jack doesn't eat; he can't or won't and there is barely enough flesh to cover his bones. John sits across from him and stares at his own greasy burger and fries. The nurse has that look in her eyes, it is a look that says i'I'm gonna put in the tube if he doesn't start chowing down soon.'/i and John wants to do something, anything to stop THAT from happening.

"Come on," he says, spearing a piece of burger on his fork, "come on Jack – you need to eat."

Jack's jaw is slack and his eyes are watery; he shakes his head and one single tear trickles down his thin cheek. John holds the burger up and lifts it to Jack's lips.

"Come on," he says, "let the train into the tunnel."

It is a totally stupid ass thing to say but it seems and feels right. Jack lifts his eyes and he stares at John, a smile playing on the edge of his lips. He opens his mouth slightly and John pushes the burger inside. Jack pauses for a moment and then he starts to chew, head to one side, dimples appearing in those hollow cheeks.

"Again," John says and it is like they have done this before, years, decades ago, a distant foggy memory where John can see a small toddler, hear sobbing, see an older man with angry, tired eyes; hear a voice stating _'Leave him Dean – he'll eat when he is hungry'_

****

Jimmy pulls the truck into the motel parking lot and then goes around helping Bobby out and into his wheelchair. The sun is still hot on his neck even though it is late in the evening and the wind is growing colder. Bobby sits in his chair and flicks through his cell.

"Are you ever going to explain everything?" Jimmy tries not to sound frustrated, "like who the fuck Castiel is? Who our saviours are and what they are doing in Detroit."

"You don't remember anything?" Bobby sounds disappointed.

Jimmy shrugs – what he does remember is faint and fuzzy and hardly worth recounting. Bobby sighs.

"We better go inside and get the coffee brewing then cos it is gonna be a long, long night."

****

Jack opens his eyes in the dark and sees nothing. He can hear John breathing in the other bed and the sound is comforting. He puts his hand to his head and rubs his fingers through his hair, his mind whirling as he tries to recall his dream.

He can hear John – he thinks it is John – begging him to stop. He can hear another voice; a woman's but he can't see a face, recollections of long, brown hair and the rich taste of blood. He feels like being sick, his stomach clenching with a guilt he doesn't understand. He can see vague outlines in his mind, hear the flutter of wings, feel the cold steel of a knife against his throat. He coughs and rubs at his neck, there is a scar there and it hurts when he rubs it, a phantom ache.

He wants to sleep again and he knows he won't do it in his own bed. Instead he crawls into Johns, wrapping long arms around John's waist and curling a leg over John's hip. John grunts and moves a little closer, his voice soft and warm when he mutters,

"Sammy…,"

Jack feels warm inside then and he nuzzles his nose against John's spiky hair.

"Dean," he whispers and he falls into a deep sleep before he can wonder anymore…

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

John wakes up warm and cocooned.

Jack is wrapped around him like an exotic snake, all arms and legs. He can feel Jack's body firm against his back and he bites his lip as he wriggles from the tight grasp and sits on the edge of the bed.

Jack is fast asleep; his long hair hangs around his shoulders and falls into his closed eyes. His lashes are long, fanned out against his pale cheeks. Clean shaven it is obvious he is still a young man, dimples in his cheek, a cleft in his chin. John feels something clench in his stomach. This man means something to him, this man is important to him and he just wants to know why…

Jimmy needs a beer.

Bobby hands him one and watches him drink it. He looks pale and disbelieving but he hasn't run away screaming so Bobby figures it as a win.

"So," he looks out of the motel's grimy window. Detroit is just as he remembers it only brighter, cleaner, "how do you feel now?"

Jimmy stares at the man in the baseball cap and shrugs. How is he supposed to feel? He was possessed by an angel, he lost his family, he was shot, he did things that he cannot even recall and – in the end – he helped save the world, he fought alongside Michael as he brought down the morning star and the men he could remember did their part.

"Are they dead?" He asks finally, not really answering Bobby's question, too full of questions of his own.

"I don't know," Bobby looks sad, tears in his eyes, "last I saw Sam had a sword in his chest and Dean was wielding it. The light was too bright, the explosion drove us out of there – when I got back inside – all three of you were gone – and I was alone," he wiped at his face, embarrassed, "didn't expect to see you again – so maybe – just maybe – there is hope for them too."

Jack follows him like a puppy; a big, tall gangly puppy but a puppy all the same.

At meal times he has started to feed himself and he can dress himself now too. There is brightness in his eyes, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile, dimples deepening. Jack looks better, happier, healthier and it makes John feel warm in a way that is quite disturbing.

Sometimes – at night – when Jack crawls into his bed and cuddles him, he wonders if they were lover's maybe, if they were partners and something went bad. He gets confused when Jack touches him but he isn't sure if that is just his body's natural reaction to having another warm body next to him. Then he will turn over, see Jacks sleeping face, touch his soft hair and his feelings will be more paternal or brotherly and he lays awake for hours trying to figure out just who they are and why they ended up in a godforsaken warehouse in fucking Detroit…

The smell of the place made Bobby feel sick. This was the tenth establishment in as many days and not one person recognised the photos of Sam and Dean that he showed around. Now he was on the last few places before he got down to the morgues and he wanted to weep, only Jimmy's stoic determination – so like Castiel's – keeping him going.

The nurse held the photograph in her hand and stared at it for a long, long time. She held it to the light and cocked her head to one side and then she showed it to her companion. Bobby sat in his wheelchair and stared at them, irritation beginning to make him edgy, a twitch behind his eye getting worse.

"Yes," the companion spoke first, "that – that is definitely John – and – and the other guy – he – that is Jack."

"They are here?" Bobby felt his head spin and Jimmy's hand clamped down on his shoulder, grounding him, "here in this place?"

"Yes," she stared at him, "are they…I mean do you know them?"

"I'm their uncle – they are my nephews Sam and Dean Singer," Bobby pulled the cards from his pocket, handing them over to the nurse, "can I see them?"

The nurse studied the cards for a long time and then she smiled.

"Of course – but Mr Singer – you must prepare yourself for the worst – they – they are not as you remember them."

"No," Bobby guessed when you had been an angel's meat suit that there wasn't much left of your mind. Castiel had left Jimmy confused enough and he was just a normal, everyday angel – they were talking about Lucifer and Michael – and Lucifer had been in Sam for weeks – weeks.

"No," he said again, "I guess they aren't…"

Jimmy pushed Bobby into the small visiting area. People of all shapes and sizes were milling about and it was clear that they were all – different. Jimmy had never been in an establishment like this one before and he wondered how a person might survive like this, locked away, kept from the world just because they weren't quite right.

The tall man he remembered was sitting in the corner at a table, long legs stretched out, gazing through the window, eyes wide. The broader man sat opposite him, eyes on the other's face, his expression one of pure love and devotion, the emotion so strong it made Jimmy want to weep.

"You idjits," Bobby's voice cracked on the words as he stared at the men, "you stupid noble idjits."

"What can we do?" Jimmy touched his shoulder gently.

"We can save them," Bobby said, finally, "because they saved us and without them – we wouldn't be here – we wouldn't even be here."

Jimmy swallowed down the blockage in his throat and stared at the two men, trying to remember them, trying to recall what they had done. Bobby made a choked off noise and bent forward suddenly, head in his hands.

"Idjits," he said again and this time he couldn't hold back his tears, "your dad would be so proud of you – so fucking proud…"

And then Bobby Singer – hardened hunter and survivor of so many wars – sat in his wheelchair and wept….

TBC


End file.
